


Memory Lane

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Episode: s05e24-25 Grave Danger, Episode: s10e23 Meat Jekyll, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nick Stokes Whump, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: Shot down by Jekyll, Nick falls to the ground...and falls through time.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Memory Lane

**Author's Note:**

> Storytime. I've been writing fic since middle school. Started writing my first OC's for Harry Potter fan fiction. Occasionally, I would write my own original material accompanied with drawings. But then in seventh grade, my life was changed forever when I found my way to the show CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and a new obsession that opened even more doors of creativity with a non-fantasy based crime drama that was, at the time, my first foray into the darker side of life. Crime. Horror. 
> 
> And at the same time...I was getting more into...science fiction.
> 
> From then on, my stories dove deeper, I had found more and new muses to latch onto--believe it or not, Grissom was my first CSI muse, but none of them clicked as hard as Nick Stokes did. I wrote in notebooks and doodled in margins and spent hours upon hours daydreaming and scheming and even a little photo-editing here and there.
> 
> But most of that has since been lost. 
> 
> A deep purge of an infested room, the sacrifice of pretty much all of my physical writings and drawings except for what I scanned or typed up that has now been lost to a corrupt external hard drive--except the stuff that I shamefully posted to ff.net or deviantart (pretty sure also sheezyart back when that was a thing lmao) and I say shamefully for the fact that all of it was just...never finished. Maybe one or two--I actually did post one that I wrote back in 2010, "Full Moon" cause that was the only finished fic I could find (and because it was the birth of my OC, Veronica)
> 
> But the other day, I was looking through some stuff...and I found some of my notebooks. Found some of the bits and pieces of stories that I kept trying to write over and over and over (most likely during classes or otherwise away from a computer) and I found...this fic. This totally wild, completely out of genre fic that combined two of my absolute favorite episodes of the show, with some sci-fi concepts that would never be part of an actual CSI story. That's what makes me...me, I guess, as I start to stretch reality in my current works (coughSpecimen Stokescough) and maybe I'm still riding high on the burst of nostalgia that hit me in 2018 and hasn't stopped burning since, maybe I'm finally seeing some genius hidden in these scraps I've clung onto after all these years, or maybe I'm just itching to play around with some wild ideas, but...
> 
> This is for that seventeen year old girl with an extraordinary imagination, from the twenty-seven year old woman in the future who finally has the words to express it.
> 
> (Hopefully it won't take me another ten years to actually, you know, finish it.)

Despite the commotion, the hallway leading to the back of the restaurant is eerily calm. His shouts echo off the walls as he cautiously, but quickly makes an approach with his drawn gun while Ray calls for backup.

“Clark! Clark, situation!  _ Clark!” _

He’s been in dangerous situations before. Hostile suspects. Hostile witnesses.

Hostile  _ murderers.  _

They’ve had training for this, to keep their heads level and their hearts from leaping out of their chest.

But no amount of training could  _ ever  _ have prepared him to look down the overly lit, white tunnel of death that quickly shrinks down into the barrel of a shotgun that fires at him, the burst of fire narrowly missing its intended target and exploding on the wall of wine bottles behind him. 

Clark is dead. He’s gotta be. Cause if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

And it’s  _ Nick’s  _ fault.

He fires back, two shots that also miss, lodging into the bricks behind the speeding, skinny waiter that duped them all into thinking he was just a doting son serving wine and helping his spiraling sick father. Charlie, one of the boys, one of the “good guys,” according to his father, yet he apparently wanted nothing but to be a doctor.

So he became Doctor Jekyll. Meticulous. Calculating. Taking his time with this victim, his  _ own father.  _

The serial killer is far quicker on the draw, even more so than the old western-raised Nick and before he can even squeeze his own trigger, his finger unfurls though it’s his opposite shoulder, the side of his chest closest to his heart that’s blown back and it all happens so fast, the shattering of more wine bottles masks his groan—he didn’t even have time to scream, it was trapped somewhere in his frozen heart that suddenly bursts in one final pump, the shock of which makes him throw his hands up in surrender, his gun clattering to the ground.

His head bounces against the smooth floor causing a concussion that doesn’t come close to balancing out the stinging, burning, sharp gaping pinch teasing the nerves in his arm, his lungs, teasing his  _ heart _ —which isn’t pumping fast enough, his brain is shutting down, his life flashing before his eyes—

But really, he was already unconscious before that.

* * *

_ “Charlie-oh-three Stokes, Control. Respond.” _

He was never afraid of the dark. 

It’s his job to work in the dark, after all.

But this darkness isn’t just an absence of light, it’s an absence of  _ everything.  _

Especially the air.

He can’t breathe in. He can’t breathe out.

Quick, slow, it doesn’t matter. 

He’s going to suffocate in this entrapping void.

Teased with minute amounts of air that aren’t enough to sustain him. Gentle wafts tickling the side of his profusely sweating face.

Although somehow, his lips are chapped. All moisture evaporated with his screams.

The worst part of it all is that he can’t seem to move. His legs in a deep slumber, roaring with a barrage of pins into the pores of his skin with the slightest movement. His arms squeezed to his sides, one shoulder pinched uncomfortably. The pinch flies up through the winding pathway of nerves and veins, collecting in the back of his head that’s ready to just  _ pop!  _

But it never does. Just continues to loop on the last second of a countdown to an explosion that would maybe bring some peace to his brain if it would just once and for all  _ explode. _

There’s a particular nerve in his neck that’s pinched, too, solidifying into a long, tight, unshakeable rod that spreads to the rest of the muscles in his neck, keeping him frozen in place.

Frozen, yet he’s floating. 

Downward.

Very quickly.

_ Falling.  _

“Oh my God! Somebody, help!” 

It’s very much his own thought at this moment, but it’s not screamed by his voice.

He knows that voice, as distant as it is, wavering in and out of pounding ear drums whizzing past the air as his body plummets down through the floor, through the suffocating earth. He wants to reach out a hand, help the voice but...he just...can’t move. 

Can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even  _ think.  _

“Nick! It’s Nick!” 

Judy! It’s Judy! 

But what is Judy doing in the restaurant? The restaurant that was closed, occupied only by an estranged pair of father and son and three members of law enforcement who were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Story of his life, really.

“Somebody call for an ambulance, he’s bleeding!”

His eyes flutter open and his head rolls towards the volcano of blood mounded on his chest, the bubbling, boiling flow of plasma sinking into his shoulder. The pain pulses as the blood gushes. Red floods his vision but it’s cleared out with the translucent tears. 

He squints his eyes to gain more focus, cause it’s the funniest thing...the restaurant looks a lot like the lobby of the lab. Even the flooring is similar. 

And covered in his own blood. 

His eyes follow the seeping fluid towards the corner, the one that he just wants to crawl to for shelter before the killer comes around the opposite corner to finish the job. He can still hear the monster’s threats, still feel the looming shadow over his body, blocking out the light at the end of the tunnel to the safety of his sanctuary.

_ “You try and stop me, and I’ll blow you away!” _

But there’s someone else standing in the way. Casting a different shadow. A safer one.

“Gris...som? What...What are you doing in my office?” he mutters weakly. 

“Get a body bag and bring him to the morgue,” Grissom commands, walking towards Nick like he’s walking towards a corpse at a crime scene. Nick’s words seem lost on him, and not only that, but he wonders if he maybe spoke in accidental spanish, or otherwise his tangled tongue is simply just lost on the elder man as he doesn’t respond to Nick’s questions.

“What? But, sir, he’s not dead, he needs to get to a hospital!”

“I know, Judy, but he’s also not our Nick.  _ Call Robbins.”  _

Grissom crouches down and presses his hand onto Nick’s wound, which entices a sharp hiss into a strained grunt but his ex-boss still scrutinizes him like some sort of evidence to be examined, his eyebrows furrowed and a tight frown on his lips, but also a...certain shine in his eyes that he had only ever seen once before.

When Warrick died in his arms.

“Gris...Ray n-needs heeeelp,” he moans, willing his free hand to grab Grissom’s shoulder to tether him from falling through the floor. His breathing becomes more staggered, faster as he can feel his head lighten, start to float, copious amounts of blood escaping out from the burning bullet holes and soon he’ll be completely drained. And dead.

Grissom will have enough blood to last his experiments for a while.

The free fall suddenly changes direction and a sharp gasp pulls as he’s pulled, too. His head whips to the other side—which is a  _ mistake _ and he pays for it as he’s being lifted up but the terror that rises in his heart is overcome with relief as he sees another familiar face, one that knows what’s going on—

But his hair looks vastly different from before, refilling the reserves of terror. 

When did he have time to restyle? They’re working the most important case of the year.

“Did anybody see you?” Grissom asks and Greg Sanders shakes his head quickly with Nick lagging behind as he turns his attention to each man.

“Somehow, no, everybody’s attention is still on Nick’s parents, they’re paying their respects...Even though, I don’t know why, cause I mean...he’s not dead. Which is kind of morbid considering we are putting him in a body bag—”

“Stop rambling, Greg, just zip him up.”

Why are they talking like he can’t hear them?

“Is he going to be okay in there? With...with  _ that?” _

_ “I hope it's tearing you up like a thousand knives inside. I did that to you—”  _ the monster echoes.

“It’s a quick trip down to the morgue,” Grissom’s final words.

_ “Do what a doctor would do. Let him live!”  _ Ray’s desperate plea.

_ “Anyway you like, you’re going to die here,”  _ An ominous, disembodied voice reminds him as he’s sealed into another premature grave.

* * *

There’s no tape recorder this time to document his final thoughts. To say the things he always should have said. 

To tell them it was nobody’s fault but his own. 

He thought he could be like John Wayne. Run head first into danger and save the day. Shake off the gunshot like it’s a mosquito bite. 

It isn’t worse than an insurmountable count of ant bites, after all. 

It really doesn’t even hurt...so long as he doesn’t think about it. 

And besides, corpses can’t feel pain. 

Or anything. 

Though he feels an odd sense of deja vu as he’s wheeled away, coming to halt when the zipper parts and he looks up at the harsh fluorescent sun, clouded by a medical examiner and his assistant before they start to crane their heads and make scrutinizing comments, ask questions with obvious answers. 

Look at him like he’s a motionless slab of flesh for them to dissect with tools raised at the ready.

_ “Do you think he suffered?”  _ he expects Super Dave to ask. 

“Do you think he’s in shock?” is the question that’s asked instead. 

“Yes, definitely,” Doc Robbins affirms, and moves to peel off the halves of Nick’s torn vest. He flinches, suddenly overcome with a sinking feelings from deep within his subconscious, of being stripped and tied and buried alive. 

“David, help me roll him.” 

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Grissom’s voice, out of Nick’s view, informs the coroner. Nick rolls his eyes, his ears perking and hoping Grissom can do something, that it’s not too late and that Ray won’t be the next body tagged on his toe and stored in the drawer next to his. 

He knows Clark will be on the other side.

His body falls back onto the table and his shirt is sliced with a pair of scissors. He watches as David untucks his shirt and removes his ID badge from his waist. 

“That’s a nasty GSW,” Doc Robbins sighs as he cuts away Nick’s dress shirt. “I’m only going to be able to do so much, he’s going to need a hospital.”

“Remind me again, why is it that we can’t bring him to a hospital?” Sara’s voice warbles in. His eyes continue to dart, but are unable to see anybody but Doc, too concentrated on his work to note Nick’s widening eyes. 

“Cause he’s from the future.”

“Now is really not the time for jokes, David,” Doc reprimands. 

“No, really, guys…” David comes back into view, holding up the badge for everyone to see.  _ “‘Assistant Supervisor Nick Stokes.’” _

“You don’t suppose Catherine somehow...promoted him, do you?” Greg posits, and Nick can picture his shrugging, pouty lipped face and wants to smile. 

“Nicky…” Grissom begins in a soft voice that scares him, and Nick suddenly feels a hand slide underneath his head, fingers settling against the shortly cut bristles and turning his head to face his mentor. “What year is it?”

“Tuh—2010,” Nick’s voice, coarse and scratchy chokes out, but finally opening up the wordgates that had previously been shut in shock. 

Grissom remains still as the rest of the room gasps out. 

“L-listen, I dunno what’s goin’ on here, but...but Ray’s in the restaurant. With Jekyll. He’s gonna kill his father, and probably Ray, too, we gotta go back there—”

“Who’s Ray?” Sara asks.

“You know, Doctor Ray! Ray Langston?” Nick squeaks out. “Y-you know him, new guy—”

“New guy? Catherine got another person for swing shift?” 

“Swing—No, we...we work nights. All of us, ‘cept for Gris—”

“What are you talking about, Nick? Grissom’s right here—”

“Lemme speak, will ya?!” Nick sits up but falls back down just as quickly with the spike of pain that punishes him.

He huffs and seethes but ultimately settles as Doc Robbins returns to working on stitching his wounds. 

“If y’all are so shocked...where did you think I was?”

“Well...you know... _ gone,”  _ Greg blurts.

“In a...box?” Sara adds. 

“Ah, easy there, Doc!” Nick hisses, holding up his free hand to pause so he can collect the pain and shove it down between his gritted teeth. 

“Sorry, son, I’m not used to working on the living.”

“In...in a box...in-in the ground?” Nick asks through deep breaths. He studies the group’s appearances once again, particularly Greg’s—Greg hasn’t had spikes like that in almost…

“Five years. This...This is five years ago,” he phrases it as a statement, but looks to Grissom as if it’s a question. 

“No, this...this is just the oxygen deprivation getting to your head...Right, Grissom?” Sara asks in return.

Grissom continues to be silent, but he’s holding Nick’s bloodied vest. Examining it. 

“How do you explain two vests?” he asks. “The other one is tagged and bagged. This one is bloodied.”

“But, Grissom, that-that’’s  _ impossible,  _ are you suggesting that he traveled back in time from 2010?”

“Do you have a different explanation? I don’t want to believe it any more than you, certainly not if that means that we still have a Nick who’s lost in the earth somewhere with a million dollar price on his head,” Grissom snaps, which is another thing that scares Nick but not enough to keep him from laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Sounds like you two need marriage counseling,” Nick chuckles, worth every second of pain it causes him.

_ “Marriage counseling?”  _ Sara gapes out. “What—Did you hit your head in that box?”

“Yeah, actually, I did,” Nick groans. “But also hit my head on the way down after the shotgun blast.”

“What exactly happened? Who shot you?”

“A serial killer. Tried to shoot back. Missed,” Nick grunts through the prickling weaving thread stitching his skin together. 

“You didn’t trip and fall back into some sort of portal, did you?”

“You’ve been hanging out with Goose and Arch too much there, G. Watchin’ them sci-fi shows...”

“Goose?” Grissom piques and eyebrow.

“Yeah, Hodges. Call him Goose. I don’t...call him that yet? Coulda sworn I did…he’s one of my best friends,” he mutters, having a vague recollection of just weeks before his abduction, the almost too good to be true rapport he had with, well,  _ everyone.  _

“Can’t say, but as far as I know, you don’t quite have any friendly nicknames for him if that’s what you’re asking,” Sara smirks for a moment, before it slides off her face. “If you’re really...you’re really from the future...then can you tell us where you are?”

“What d’you mean?” 

“Short term memory will come back once the shock settles,” Doc whispers to a silently inquisiting Grissom.

“Nick, you’ve...you’ve been kidnapped!” Greg exclaims, taking a step closer before Grissom shoots him back with a glance. 

Nick scrunches his face. 

“And buried alive? You even said it earlier. You know, ‘in the ground?’”

Nick’s face straightens, even as the tools Doc Robbins was using clatter against the metal tray. 

“There we go, that should do it for now. Let me find some bandages…”

“So...it is.. _.that  _ day, huh?” 

“Afraid so.”

“Do you know where you are?” Sara asks again, this time, her eyes watering. Desperate. 

Nick sits up, turning his back to Sara as he swivels on the side of the table, hanging his legs over the edge. Though only half, he feels as vulnerable and exposed as if he were fully naked.

“I wish I could tell you,” Nick says in a low, small voice. “But...I honestly can’t remember.” 

“What do you mean you can’t remember?” 

“I just...I can’t, okay? It...it was five years ago, after all, and not like there was a...a big-ass neon sign six feet under tellin’ me where I was!”

“Do you remember who did it to you, at least?”

“Uhm…” Nick shuts his eyes, trying to picture faces—but he never saw the man’s face. Only heard his voice. Didn’t know his name until he was lucid enough to comprehend it. Visited his...daughter...but what was her name? Caught the accomplice that nobody even knows about at this stage...but only after she got killed. By the daughter. 

But still...all of their names, lost to repression. 

The only name he can think of is the current monster trying to end his life. 

Charlie DiMasa.

He wonders if they could just hunt  _ him  _ down instead, and maybe he wouldn’t be shot. Maybe Ray wouldn’t be in danger.

Maybe Officer Clark would still be alive.

“M-maybe if...Maybe if I see somethin’? Wasn’t there...there was some sort of camera, right?” Nick suggests.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be walking around, Nick,” Sara shakes her head atop folded arms. 

“Yeah, like The Butterfly Effect, or-or Back to the Future, changing the past can alter your future—” Greg adds, but this time Grissom doesn’t react to him. 

“We’ve already changed the past by me showin’ my face to y’all!” Nick protests as Doc Robbins attaches large bandages to his chest.

Grissom studies him for a full minute before he nods.

“We should get something to cover you up, though. Hide your face best we can. Everybody else might not take too kindly to there being  _ two  _ Nicks running around.”

“I have a hoodie in my locker?”

“I’ll go grab it,” Greg rushes out of the room. 

A tense silence falls over the room as Nick slowly hops off the table, rolling his good shoulder and wiping his face with a hand. 

“A lot happened in the past five years, huh?” Sara purses her lips. 

“Yeah, so?”

“You just seem...eager to get out of here.” 

“Kind of unsettling being operated on in the morgue,” he mutters, walking over to the sink to splash his blushing face. 

“So...you’re now the assistant supervisor, there’s a new CSI on the team, and Grissom even mentioned that you called his office,  _ your  _ office. Did...did someone leave?”

Nick shuts off the water, but doesn’t respond. 

“What happened to not changing the past, Sara?” 

Sara lets out a cold chuckle, but a genuine smile.

“I see sarcasm doesn’t go out of style in the future.”

Nick smiles sadly, and contemplates telling at least... _ someone  _ what he really is eager to see...or rather... _ who  _ he’s really eager to see, but Greg returns with one of Nick’s hoodies. 

“Little tight,” Greg observes with a suppressed giggle as Nick wrestles the clothing on himself, wincing as he attempts to avoid shattering his already broken shoulder bones. 

“Yeah, well, it’s just cause I’ve been workin’ out so much,'' Nick smiles with a wink. He throws up the hood, pulls the top down over his eyes. “Good?”

“All good in the hood,” Greg smiles back. Nick’s tongue pokes out and washes over his lips. 

“As if this day isn’t fucking weird enough already…” Sara mutters as she leads the way out of the morgue, shooting glances back to Nick as Greg guides him with a hand on his back. Grissom follows behind, his face lost in a puzzle.

“Are you sure  _ you  _ two don’t need marriage counseling?” she quips when she notices Nick and Greg’s fingers fighting to grip onto each other.

“I think I know my way to the A/V lab, you know,” Nick whispers into her shoulder with blushing cheeks radiating from his pale face.

“Just gonna make sure you don’t fall back another five years. That hoodie would be so out of style,” she teases. 

They walk up the stairs and the entire time, and though the lights are dimmer, his head hasn’t stopped throbbing. He’s getting almost nauseous from his light head, and though he’s remained relatively calm and collected in the face of this...delusion. It has to be a delusion. Oxygen deprivation, blood loss, whatever you want to call it, he’s finally, after all these years just... _ lost it.  _

But he loses it even more when they reach the top of the stairs, and he sees two men having a hushed conversation in the hallway.

“You want to do something for your people? Get ‘em ready for a funeral.”

He doesn’t even have time to fully comprehend the words implying that they should just let him rot underground. 

Nick roars through the flaring pain as he lunges forward, shrugging Greg’s hand off of his, shoving Sara aside after he pulls her service weapon from her hip and whips it at the current, but to him,  _ former  _ Undersheriff. 

He pins the man against the wall, despite the protests from Ecklie and the rest of the team. He digs the nuzzle of the gun underneath the man’s chin, pressing against the same veins that twitch in Nick’s own neck.

“I am  _ not  _ throwing away my shot this time, you sorry sack of shit!” his low growl turns into a loud shout at the man.

“Stokes, glad to see you’re okay—” McKeen attempts to smile, appealing as he holds up a hand to wave off the shouting sea splashing against them, trying to separate them.

“Shut the fuck up!” Nick spits in his face.

“Nick, stop this—” Grissom tries to command him.

“Leave it alone, boss, this is between me and this scumbag,” Nick warns him. “And trust me, you’ll be thanking me for this someday—”

“Nick! Whatever you’re about to do, don’t do it!” Sara cries out, watching as Nick quickly readies the gun. Fully loaded. Ready to shoot. 

His finger’s already squeezing the trigger. 

More guns are clicked and cocked and he can feel the heat of all of the barrels ready to transform him into a block of swiss cheese. 

As long as the devil goes down with him, he’s fine with that.

“Tell me, are your hands already dirty, Jeffrey? Are you already Lou Gedda’s little bitch? Cause you’re about to become mine.”

McKeen’s smile becomes more twisted, his eyes become a shade darker.

“You’re all bark and no bite, Stokes,” McKeen whispers so low that only Nick can hear. 

Nick’s eyes gleam with a nasty smile on his face. 

“Thanks for cleaning up my conscience,” Nick laughs with a casual nod as he counts down the seconds in his head. Three...two…

“Nicky?”

_ One. _

The gun immediately clatters to the floor and a tear streaks down the shadows shrouding his cheeks. He wishes his neck was still frozen so that it wouldn’t have turned the way it did towards the voice he was longing to hear since he fell into the living flashback, and it’s still his face he’s longed to see though he doesn’t want him to see Nick like this. To see the anger and hurt that he’s carried with him ever since that night in the alley when he was just a minute too late. To see the ghost that’s been tethered to him for the better part of almost two years. His biggest source of strength that walks besides him every day, now in corporeal form for everyone to see. 

To see his best friend.

Alive.

“Warrick,” he swallows down the sob that vibrates through his throat, pinballing until it releases out in a disbelieving breath as Warrick unsheathes his hood.

“Nick, you’re...you’re here, you’re  _ alive,”  _ Warrick smiles, sharing the same disbelief. 

But oh, if only he knew.

Nick completely crumbles as he wraps his hands around Warrick, crushing him in the tightest bear hug he’s ever given, as if Warrick were about to melt through his grasp into the ground he’s currently buried in.

“What the  _ hell  _ is going on here?” Ecklie angrily asks as Nick heaves silently into Warrick’s shoulder. 

“Too much to explain, Conrad,” Grissom holds up a hand, before lowering his voice, “But I suggest you escort the Undersheriff out of the building.” 

“You’re sure as hell not getting any ransom money now…” McKeen grumbles, and the team hold their breath though Nick’s too far gone to care. 

“And the rest of all of you, stand down. Get back to work!” Grissom barks out.

“Nicky, how?” Warrick whispers into his ear, cupping the back of Nick’s head with his hand.

“He’s still underground, Warrick,” Sara sniffles. “This Nick...this Nick’s not…”

“He’s from the future,” Greg cuts in.

“From the fucking  _ what?”  _ Warrick asks as he pushes Nick off of him, or at least, attempts to. 

Nick doesn’t let go.

And he never will.

“So alright then, buddy, just tell us where you are—”

“Tried that,” Greg shakes his head. “We were on our way to look at the feed, jog his memory.”

“Seems like there’s something else he’s remembering, though…” Sara clears her throat. 

“Nick...what happened?” 

Nick finally lifts his head, his reddened eyes sunken into his paled, tear stricken face as he just...shakes his head with pursed lips. He wipes his eyes and sulks to the A/V Lab. 

He doesn’t know what he quite expected, watching his own life tick down on a computer screen. Watching himself squirm and struggle for comfort that never comes. Watching his lips suckle on the much too small amount of air that comes through the metal slits next to his head. 

The feed cuts off and the screen cuts to a phrase that reminds him that they didn’t know what they were doing to him, as the anger rises within him while he remembers the relief that came in the green-lit darkness. 

He hears a heavy sigh, and watches resigned fingers reach for the mouse next to him that operates the switch of fate, but he stops the hand before it presses the “watch” button. 

“Just...just give him... _ me,  _ a minute…” he asks, his lips suddenly dry. Chapping. The air caught in his throat. Surrounded by friends and family but also more alone than he’s ever been.

He doesn’t ask for much, and given the circumstances, knows it’s the last thing he should ask, and certainly doesn’t want any  _ pity  _ per se…

But he asks for it anyway. 

“Before you press the button,” he clarifies as he clears his throat to put on a stronger face. “Can you just give me a minute? Please?” 


End file.
